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Summary
As he's made to yield, Aerion’s scent pierces through the sludge of the fight, an unmistakably earthy and burnt thread that couldn’t come from the rain. In a rush of adrenaline, instinct takes over.
“I withdraw my accusation,” Aerion shouts but it’s too late. Dunk bares his teeth, no longer tasting his own blood but Aerion’s call. He yanks Aerion’s head to the side, ignoring the yelp as he stares at the column of bruised skin.
“What the—” Aerion starts and before even Dunk can catch up with what his own body is doing, his teeth pierce into flesh. Aerion screams and tries to move but Dunk has him trapped, the fury of their clash still pounding in his heart. A lesson. The boy needs a lesson. Dunk’s mouth floods with blood as on the field, in front of the hungry crowd, in front of honourable knights, in front of the lords, he claims Aerion Targaryen’s impending heat for himself.